


The Evolution of Touch

by Nymphalis_antiopa



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalis_antiopa/pseuds/Nymphalis_antiopa
Summary: There had been various careful touches between them since that evening after the confrontation at the airbase. The first of them was when Crowley had taken his hand on the bus ride back to London, and told him that he would always protect him from the wrath of Heaven.Aziraphale considers the influence the ability to touch is having on his interactions with Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 61





	The Evolution of Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I keep thinking about what Aziraphale's experiences with Heaven must have been like, and how my own experiences allow me to empathize. Censoring and second-guessing yourself and acting contrary to your own instincts, if done for a long time, can give a person issues. I do love the idea of Aziraphale gradually emerging from a state of self-denial and unfortunate coping mechanisms so that he can finally let go and live a life without fear.

Aziraphale closed the door to the bookshop, joy unfurling within, his chest feeling tight like a ship's sail when the wind has caught it. His long-guarded heart had flung away all its armor. Tonight, Crowley had kissed his hand before returning to the Bentley and driving away.

There had been various careful touches between them since that evening after the confrontation at the airbase. The first of them was when Crowley had taken his hand on the bus ride back to London, and told him that he would always protect him from the wrath of Heaven. This, after an awful day in which Aziraphale had repudiated Crowley almost entirely (but only outwardly, to appease Heaven! Never deep within, where it counts!). Aziraphale, overcome with emotion, managed to respond in kind.

At Crowley's flat that night, they ordered food from the small Thai takeout in Crowley’s neighborhood. (The place was run by a cheerful fellow named Kwan, who, together with his wife, cooked everything from traditional recipes.) They sat at the small table on the far side of Crowley’s living room, the angel eating bites of red curry and pad thai with egg crepe, the demon eating only a bit of noodle soup with grilled prawns. Aziraphale was thankful that the first food his renewed corporation encountered was of good quality. He was even more grateful for his friend, who welcomed him into his home, and sat and ate with him in something very like contentment. In his mind's eye, Aziraphale kept seeing how their hands had been clasped together, resting on the place where the outer edges of their thighs met. Now, at the table, their fingers had brushed fractionally longer than necessary while they passed dishes to one another.

(Touches, previously, had been mainly perfunctory: one of them held the other upright while inebriated. One tripped in the dark, the other grasped at an elbow. Fingers grazed while giving or receiving objects. But there was a point -- at what point did it happen? -- that these fleeting contacts of tiny portions of skin had become imbued with meaning. They evolved into rudimentary words of a new secret language spoken only between the two of them. Misunderstandings might occur, interpretations were unclear, but tiny increments of eyes meeting confirmed its existence.)

After dinner, the angel sat fidgeting on a newly-materialized sofa. Crowley had leaned over him for only a moment, one hand resting briefly on his shoulder. "Green or black tea, Angel?" How he had thrilled to that unforeseen touch! (He was certain, though, that Crowley hadn't noticed.) He considered the idea of reciprocating gestures of fondness, but would they be welcome? After all, he had been so beastly to Crowley. How far did his apparent forgiveness extend? Could he, perhaps (ever so gently), embrace the demon; try to soothe both of their jagged nerves?

 _It's too soon to consider embraces. Is it egregious of me to want his forgiveness? It is certainly asking a lot, having done what I've done. I hurt him so many times over._ The angel inhaled a long, shuddering breath. _I’ll make it right, as soon as I get my bearings again. I’ve lost my purpose, but--_ A new, sharp bolt of loss and grief threatened to skewer him, and Aziraphale did his best to override it. _No, I mustn't allow myself to wallow. I have not lost my purpose. I am my own, now, free to determine my_ own _purpose. Heaven constantly pruned my better instincts, but the time for pain and restraint is done!_

Finally, he could drop the subterfuge. No more reprimands for unauthorized miracles. No more lip service, “We’re not friends,” and “I don’t know him.” Interactions could be relaxed (though millenia of knee-jerk reactions would take time to undo). He and Crowley might walk arm in arm, as dear friends do, in view of everyone! They could choose any frivolous jaunt they liked! Aziraphale could treat Crowley to music, beauty, and affection in the ways he'd wished to but never dared in the past. But then, he felt the pleasure wither again, realizing there was likely very little opportunity left for either of them to enjoy such things.  
  
What dire punishment would await them? Aziraphale took another shaky breath. He watched Crowley round the sofa and set down a tray with a pot of tea and cups. He only realized his hands were trembling when he reached out to take the tea cup that his friend offered.  
  
Crowley took off his shoes and stuck his feet out across the chaise longue he'd miracled up. It was very like the gaudy throne in the next room over, with gold lacquered woodwork and red velvet. He cradled the cup of tea against his chest and regarded the angel through impassive black lenses. "So!" he sighed, finally. "I suppose we're going to have to think about arming ourselves, Angel. I'm not much of a fighter, of course."  
"I agree that we must come up with a defense," Aziraphale nodded. "We cannot assume we are safe, not even right now."  
"I told you, I won't let them get at you, Angel. I'll do whatever I can so that you can get away."  
  
Aziraphale, still feeling wholly unworthy of forgiveness, swallowed down the emotion which once again tried to squeeze his throat. "It won't come to that, I'm sure." _And I'd never go without you._ "But don't underestimate _me_ , either, my dear. I might choose to live as a quiet sort of person, but I do have one or two good displays of angelic wrath still in me."  
Crowley stared for a moment, entirely still. "Y-yes, though I haven't seen you smite anything in quite a while."  
"Oh, the last time you _saw_ that must have been... hm."  
"The last seige of Constantinople," Crowley said, without missing a beat.  
"It must have made an impression, if it springs so directly to mind," Aziraphale chuckled. "I do recall there was a band of lower-ranking demons sent to antagonize and sabotage. I thought that the humans were making enough of a horrible mess as it was, so I removed the demons from the fray."  
  
"You basically vaporized them. Had your wings out, blazing light. It was, er, quite the spectacle." As if to punctuate his statement, the demon removed his glasses. _Was he blushing? No, probably the cup of hot tea under his chin._ "I think I felt the first-degree burns it gave me for several weeks."  
  
"I wish I had known about your residual damage. I'd have looked after you." Aziraphale remembered the flight from the city, when Heaven conceded that defeat was imminent. _Heaven always wants to be seen in the company of the winning side_ , he thought, with a sigh.   
  
"You looked after me enough, other times," Crowley replied, his voice soft. 

The sudden revelation struck Aziraphale after an hour or so, when he thought about their reflections in the dark mirror of the bus window: their vague lines intertwining, sketched thinly on two layers of glass.

Crowley had nearly gotten there himself while murmuring pieces of stream-of-consciousness concerning metaphorical faces, and choices. "Choose your _faces_ ," the demon mused, staring at nothing. "We always present our faces to our superiors, and they don't know what we're really thinking. We need to be more careful now than ever about what they get to see. Our faces. Choose our faces wisely." The register of his voice was low, contemplative, and if Aziraphale hadn't been consumed with worry, he would have experienced a rather different quickening of his human heart at the sound.  
  
"Crowley, yes, _of course,_ " Aziraphale gasped suddenly, reaching to grip his friend's arm. "Our _faces_!"  
  


  
Occupying his friend's corporation was neither jarring nor unpleasant. It was like being welcomed into a familiar place. He did note the overly flexible, mildly aching joints, and the tiny pops of the bones in the feet when he sat and rotated them at the ankles. He had the sensation of being distinctly more compact, and his gestures seemed much too exaggerated in this shape. Naturally, his own corporation had somewhat more weight distributed on it, which invited gravity's pull. Furthermore, the nerves of Crowley's corporation were, apparently, highly tuned to seek warmth.  
  
The two of them spent an hour or so mimicking one another's cadence and mannerisms. It was harder for him than for Crowley, who had clearly made an attentive study of Aziraphale throughout the millenia. (The idea of it made Aziraphale's insides flutter. _"I'd do anything for you,"_ Crowley had told him.) The angel understood now the strangeness of a former celestial being sublimated into a serpent's form, and then metamorphosed into something completely mammalian. No wonder Crowley constantly wove and flowed like liquid. His very substance was in flux.  
  
Aziraphale stole a minute or two before the mirror in the bathroom, cautiously stroking his face, neck, and hair while Crowley (clad in the angel's corporation) brought the tea tray back to the kitchen. The crimson hair was fine and springy, held in shape with some modern pomade. The nose bridge was rigid, the lips smooth and sensitive. The eyes had gone fully serpentine because he didn't know how to make them form irises. The angel found himself sorely tempted to whisper to himself a few of the things he had never heard Crowley say. (But, no. He would, above all else, show the utmost respect for his friend, and not play-act his own suppressed wishes.) However, he allowed himself the indulgence of running his hand across the sharp chin, moderating the touch until it became a caress. Upon reaching his throat, the skin beneath his fingers responded: tiny scales appeared and spread out as far as his borrowed collarbone. Startled, Aziraphale ceased his explorations.

That Sunday morning, leaving the flat disguised as Crowley was rather like the first day after he had agreed to The Arrangement. He had been on assignment at the time, inspiring illuminated manuscripts at the Italian abbey of Monte Cassino. Remembering the decisive handshake he had exchanged with his adversary the previous night, Aziraphale shook like a leaf as he knelt among the monks and recited the prayers, feeling as though he were getting away with something truly shocking. _The Almighty must know,_ he thought, _and She will doubtlessly punish me for my moment of weakness._ He had desperately wanted to bring out his hidden wings and glance back at them, to be certain they weren't beginning to smolder at the edges.  
  
How surprising, then, that temptations came so naturally to him! The first of the temptations he carried out gave him little trouble: in Crowley's stead, he was to tempt Pope Nicholas the Second to recruit the formidable Robert Guiscard for an effort to re-take Sicily from Muslim hands. (Which is not to say that Aziraphale or Crowley had any issue whatsoever with Muslims occupying one place or another; it was a simple matter of following the orders one received.) Aziraphale was, himself, assigned to be influencing the Pope toward a greater foothold in Italy, so it was essentially killing the proverbial two birds with one stone. The entire affair went off without a hitch, and the reports were filled in accordingly.

Eventually, Aziraphale no longer felt raw about taking over tasks for Crowley. (He did covertly observe a blessing or two and concluded that the demon's performance was superb.) As years passed and assignments traded hands, their association became familiar again, and his life regained the richer flavor he had sorely missed for centuries. They dined and drank and enjoyed one another's company. They attended plays and music performances at the same time _deliberately_ , a thing they had not done since Pergamon. Furthermore, Aziraphale became driven to impress Crowley, because the demon's favor toward him felt a hundred times more fulfilling than any half-hearted praise from Above. He also became increasingly adamant to obscure every precious crumb of this secret from Heaven.

  
  


The lunch at the Ritz stretched deliciously through the afternoon. They spoke of travel, of things and places they hadn't had time to appreciate. They basked in the glow of what appeared to be a much more comfortable arrangement. "Look at that, Angel. They have those petit fours again that you liked so much last year," Crowley angled the dessert page of the menu at him. (They had already consumed several diminutive confections with a post-lunch coffee, but the demon appeared to be in a particularly indulgent mood.) "Go ahead and order a couple. I'll have another espresso."  
  
Their pace through London was leisurely while the sky transmuted from crisp cerulean to deep rose, then violet, then indigo. Crowley had run a hand over the Bentley's bonnet, murmuring to it and cherishing the smooth surface, before continuing onward by the angel's side. When they reached Aziraphale's street and the bookshop loomed ahead, Crowley stood still for a long moment.  
"My dear, are you quite all right?" Aziraphale asked him.  
"I couldn't give it much thought this morning," Crowley replied. "I'm just so glad that you're -- I'm glad to see the bookshop is as it should be."  
Crowley quietly linked their arms and walked him to the door.  
_Act upon things as you want to do_ , Aziraphale told himself. "I want to thank you for everything--"  
"Don't--" It was clear that Crowley's eyes were wide behind the dark lenses, entrenched instincts clamoring, but then something seemed to catch up with him. "That is to say, it's no trouble, Angel. ...You're... very welcome."  
He couldn't help it. His face broke into a smile, and Crowley looked away almost shyly.  
"So, uh... fancy the theater sometime this week? I'll see what's playing."  
"I'd like that very much." _Act on them, Aziraphale!_ "And Crowley? Drop in any time you like. It looks as though I have a new inventory of LP's which will need cataloguing, and I would greatly appreciate your insight."  
"I can do that." Crowley smiled his half-smile. "See you soon, Angel."

  
Crowley showed up on Tuesday afternoon with wine and _The Encyclopedia of Pop Music_ in hand. He immediately installed himself on the couch nearby Aziraphale's desk and attempted to sort the LP's by decade and genre. Aziraphale continued with his daily tasks, but drifted back a few times for a bit of natter.   
  
As the sunbeams began streaming low through the windows, Aziraphale opened up one of the bottles and seated himself across from Crowley. "I do appreciate your thorough process, dear boy. How is it coming along?"  
"I'm surprised at the amount of classic rock music," Crowley replied, taking the glass the angel held out to him. "Kids don't really go in for this sort of thing. Maybe the kid's earthly father really likes Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin."  
"Lead... hm. One of those music groups, I assume. Like the Beatles."  
"Angel, I'm impressed that you know about the Beatles."  
"Of course I do, Crowley. I haven't lived entirely under a rock, you know."  
Crowley flipped the record cover, reading the back. "Some people compare Led Zeppelin's music to Tchaikovsky. Or even Wagner."  
"Tchaikovsky certainly was quite novel in his day. His music wasn't well-received, but it has become popular as time goes on. Maybe I could... give Led Zeppelin a try."

Aziraphale was only mildly taken aback at the first burst of chords and vocals in “Whole Lotta Love.” Crowley smirked. “As groundbreaking as Tchaikovsky, eh? Even though the band was sued for plagiarism for this song.”  
“Why would they steal something like this?” Aziraphale asked, picking up the album cover. “One might at least steal something staggeringly poetic, to make it worth it.”  
“Wow, Angel,” Crowley muttered. “A few days away from Heaven, and you’re already relinquishing some of the Thou-shalt-nots.”  
  
When the old gramophone began rolling out "What Is and What Should Never Be," Crowley sang along in an alto voice, swaying slightly, wine glass in hand. Suddenly, Crowley was on his feet, grinning and grasping the angel's hand. The pitch of Crowley's voice rose as he sang " _Catch the wind, see us spin. Sail away, leave today. Way up high in the sky_ \--"

Aziraphale giggled as he took steps in a half-circle hand in hand with the demon, two arms' length between them. He enjoyed it immensely, this rare glimpse of Crowley being entirely at ease.

" _But the wind won't blow_ ," Crowley sang out staccato syllables as he pulled Aziraphale closer to him, nearly toe-to-toe. Crowley's chin was tilted slightly upward, but those golden eyes never left his. _"You really shouldn't go. It only goes to show that you will be mine, by taking our time--"_ The tempo slowed, and when the next verse began, Crowley no longer sang along. He held the angel's gaze for several seconds. Motes of dust drifted in the sunbeams, everything painted in the same gold tones as those demonic eyes; time trapped in amber.  
  
The warm sensation wrapping tight around Aziraphale's chest did not abate. (That archive of love, those hidden documents again, which he had allowed himself to open. Was it a selfish assumption that Crowley had similar archives secreted away? He'd faltered just after " _you will be mine, by taking our time._ ")

 _I think I would like to be yours,_ his thoughts whispered. Even though his heart was pounding, he sensed that he had to be the one to break the spell. "I'm... _not_ sure I can hear the parallels with Tchaikovsky, but perhaps my perception isn't as refined as yours."

There was a pause before Crowley gently released his hand and spoke. "Well, pioneering heavy metal might not be the best introduction to modern music, in your case." The demon retreated, picking up two or three LP's, looking for all the world as though he were pretending to read the covers. "Er... It's nearly five, Angel. Were you thinking of going out for dinner, or staying in?"

 _We_ could _stay in,_ Aziraphale thought to himself. _See where the evening leads us. You could regale me with some anecdotes about music groups I'll never keep straight in my head. Neither of us can dance, but I would be open to more of what just occurred. Get in close. I could finally tell you how interesting, and thoughtful, and wonderful you are. I might watch all those delicate changes in your face, and enjoy the attention you never fail to bestow. I need to have you near, now that I've lost my moorings. You're my beacon. As long as you're here, I won't run aground on the rocky shore._

"That Grand Java place is said to have delicious Indonesian food," Aziraphale found himself saying. "If you're amenable, that is."  
  
"Anything you like, Angel. It isn't far from here, is it? We could walk."  
  
"Yes, the fresh air would likely do both of us some good, after being cooped up in here all afternoon. Shall I just get my coat?"

In December, they went to the Gielgud Theater to see "Girl From the North Country." They had watched a thing called a _trailer_ on the internet, and Crowley had bought tickets because Aziraphale was enthusiastic about the production. "This way we'll introduce you to Bob Dylan," Crowley had said, "continuing your education on the great musicians of the twentieth century."  
  
The Gielgud Theater was truly a proper affair, all flourishes of bronze and burgundy, with the audience arranged cozily around the stage in plush seats. The ceiling and walls displayed decadently beautiful embellishments. Such a far cry from the humble Globe! They arrived just as the audience was being admitted. Aziraphale looked around and noted that he was slightly overdressed, but he was reassured by the fact that his friend was wearing an elegantly tailored jacket, a dress shirt in shimmering dark gray silk and a pair of what Crowley claimed were obscenely expensive designer jeans.  
  
Crowley put his hand to the small of Aziraphale's back, steadying him, as they made their way to their places. Despite the multiple layers of fabric (a hand laid against jacket, waistcoat, dress shirt, undershirt), the touch tingled on his skin. It was not to steady Aziraphale physically; he had no trouble keeping his balance, his pace had not been slowed. It was plainly because Crowley _wanted_ to rest his hand on the angel, to prove that he was unafraid to do so. The pressure of Crowley's hand glittered with _intention_ , and that, more than anything else, made Aziraphale slightly dizzy.

Every now and again, he had capitulated to the desires of his Earthly corporation. It was only natural, he told himself. Just part of learning the urges, pains and pleasures of the human experience. He refused to take a human lover, though he found that his angelic presence seemed to draw some humans inexorably toward him. If he came too close to giving in to feelings of lust, he would disentangle himself and miracle away the resulting ire or confusion. It was a kindness, he reasoned. He had an unfair supernatural advantage, and he declined to misuse it.  
  
It was therefore to be expected that he eventually discovered some of the finer, more hidden indulgences of his own flesh, and he felt that such things were not inherently sinful. He could enjoy the flare of some abstract idea, letting it overtake his senses, and then let it go. Aziraphale had been more concerned, at least until recently, about the images his mind often conjured during those indulgences; images of which he couldn't let go. Far from abstract longing, he imagined warm, gentle golden eyes regarding him from only a breath away. Hands other than his own, drawing pleasure from him. A voice that subtly hissed the second syllable of his name. His fingers tangled in shining red hair.

To reconcile these thoughts with their obvious undercurrent of love complicated the matter much further. Heaven must never know that he loved Crowley. By extension, Crowley must never know, either. He knew very well how Heaven viewed relationships it deemed “inappropriate.”

Let it not be said that Aziraphale didn't know _love_. He had loved so many of the humans dearly. He had known friends and confidantes, people with whom he identified and those who spoke eloquently to his heart. The young, the old, poor and wealthy. He had talked and laughed with them, eaten meals with them, and become a set fixture in communities. Just because Heaven thought it could limit him, it didn’t mean he didn’t have the right to his own life.

Early in his first millenium on Earth, he had discovered what it was to fall in love. The first human with whom he shared an unimaginably tender bond, a soft-spoken designer and builder of houses, had so ensnared his mind and his heart that he almost forgot himself and his station. They shared a delight in music and poetry (it was how they met). The man had a kind heart, and one could easily read it upon his dear face. Aziraphale spent enamoured hours composing lyrical things to lay before him. He was amazed at the spark of pure compatibility between them. He learned about kisses and about the simple magic of touch, though he shied away from further physical intimacy (again, because he was wary of his supernatural form).

He learned what it was to be special to another; to be tamed. His beloved accepted that there were a few things Aziraphale wouldn’t discuss, and they were happy. For nearly two years they shared a home, and the angel experienced the first wondrous depths of a close relationship.

The archangel Michael appeared at his side one evening as he was walking home. She had barely greeted him before snapping out a series of accusations. "You're dangerously close to sloth, pride and lust, Aziraphale," she said. "You ought to be ashamed! This isn't why you were assigned a human corporation! Just imagine how it will look, when we go to warn humans of these damnable sins, and you yourself, an angel of the Lord, are committing them! And I will digress on your laxity in your duties!"  
  
Though Aziraphale protested that he never failed to complete his assignments from Above, Michael berated him for “gross conduct unbecoming an angel.” She compared his loving relationship to idolatry. She informed him that Heaven demanded he cease his disgraceful ways immediately and resume his God-given role.

When Michael had taken her leave, Aziraphale wept for a long while before continuing home. He allowed himself one last night to sleep in the security of his beloved’s arms. The morning dawned, and Aziraphale announced his departure, his voice breaking. There was confusion and anger. Aziraphale could not reveal his true motivations, though his insides twisted in vague disgust with himself that he would discard something so beautiful simply because Heaven commanded him to. It was, in hindsight, grave folly anyway, to envision that a relationship with any human could last any longer than it would take for them to become suspicious at his lack of ageing, or the curious way in which disaster averted itself in his presence. (He believed, though, that his beloved might have accepted even these things, without question.)  
  
The break was made, and Aziraphale left not only that place, but the country as well. He had been heartsick at their last words to each other, and he left behind him a likewise broken heart.

He rarely thought of that time anymore, because it was very like the way humans talked of old wounds aching. Recalling the joy of that period inevitably summoned the pain, as well. No matter how much time passed, he missed being touched by familiar hands. He craved the feeling of being loved. He had fallen in love one other time, several hundred years later, but the old wound reminded him to close off his foolish heart. And so it remained, until something so bright, the regard of someone so dear to him, cracked the seal open.

If Heaven looked down upon relationships with humans, then the love he smothered inside himself for Crowley was the utter height of indecency. He considered this in the late fifteenth century, after the occult creature who frequently circled him spoke words which gave him pause. _Age cannot wither nor custom stale his infinite variety._

The fresh-faced lad on the stage of The Globe had barely accrued any age at all, and Crowley had observed him for all of three minutes. _He wasn’t really speaking about the boy, but he couldn't possibly have meant me, could he?_ His unhelpful brain pointed out that their friendship had deepened to the point that Aziraphale trusted Crowley implicitly, though he could never speak of it in so many words. Was it like that for Crowley, too? His mind lingered on the precipice, waiting for permission to plunge headlong into love. Though Crowley's face had been impassive, his words had implied _admiration_ , at least. _The demon agreed to make the play successful for the sole reason that Aziraphale had hinted at it._ But Aziraphale knew it was an impossibility. Even if it were true, he could never reciprocate. He suspected he knew what happened to deviant angels. _At best, I would be cast out. At worst, I would be destroyed._

The thought of his own destruction was unsettling enough, but the thought of Crowley having no other outlet, no being with whom he could share the long sweep of history and who would understand him, left him wrung out. If Aziraphale were destroyed, who would Crowley confide in? The humans might console him, but they were gone so soon, with their mayfly lives. Crowley needed someone who was consistent. It was true that he could only drift so close to Crowley before drawing back, showing care and concern in whatever stilted way he was able with the eyes of Heaven upon him, but he hoped that his attention meant _something._

Inversely, if Hell were to destroy Crowley, Aziraphale would be devastated without him. 

He was unspeakably glad to turn his back on that all-encompassing fear and doubt.

Some of the song lyrics of "Girl From the North Country" strummed mercilessly at his heart strings. He could tell, in furtive glances, that Crowley was likewise affected. When they later left the enveloping warmth of the theater and made their way out into the bracing winter chill, Crowley radiated something, some intoxicating delicious feeling, and Aziraphale could only lean into it.

"It was a lovely production," Aziraphale said, as the Bentley picked up speed. "Bob Dylan is a very fine songwriter."

"Yeah, I liked how his songs were integrated, though I thought it was a bit long-winded," Crowley replied. "I wonder what he thinks of the end result?"

"And what a collection of ballads for the common man," Aziraphale continued. "We've heard scores of bards throughout the ages, but only a few have really struck upon the essence of being human. At least, in my opinion."

"Let's not get too pretentious here, Angel," Crowley chuckled.

Aziraphale pressed on, undeterred. "Humans need to tell stories about what they've been through. And they need to sing because their hearts can't contain it."

Crowley didn't respond for over a minute, his expression unreadable in the electric-lit night."Yes," he finally said. "That sounds accurate." 

In front of the bookshop, Crowley got out of the car and moved swiftly to open the passenger door. Aziraphale, surprised, took the slender hand which was extended in his direction, and allowed himself to be led to his front door. Crowley fixed the bright gold points of his eyes on him and did not waver as he brought Aziraphale's hand to his lips. Aziraphale stared, entranced.

"You're right, Angel," the demon murmured when he raised his face again. "Their hearts can't contain it." There was that tiny new-moon smile. "See you soon?"

Aziraphale, completely undone, could only whisper, "Yes."

Crowley walked two steps backward, stumbled and scoffed at himself, then climbed back into the car. A thoroughly lovestruck angel watched him drive away.


End file.
